Checkmate
by Lady K 171
Summary: Extended episode for Skin Deep. What happened during the months that Belle spent at the Dark Castle? Reviews welcome!
1. Chapter 1

"If only he had come." Gaston's words lay flat, like overbaked bricks in the hot sun.

"Well, he didn't, did he?" her father said. He sat down heavily on his throne, for once not looking like a king . . . not even looking like a man. "Ogres are not men. We have to do something. We have to stop them."

Her heart melted and the safety of her world, a safety she hadn't even known was there, started to crack. If her father could be weak . . . if their kingdom could fall . . . if everything she knew could come to an end . . . She shook her head. She had to stop this.

"They are unstoppable," her father said.

She ran to him, and dropped onto the floor at his feet.

"He could be on his way right now, Papa," she said. She grabbed his hand as if it were a life raft, a little girl clinging to her father.

"It's too late, my girl," he said. He looked right at her but past her. "It's just too late."

She was going to start screaming. She was going to run out of the room. She was going to do anything, anything to stop this falling. Save me. The words spun through her head, making her dizzy. Please, save me. Save me. Save me!

The bang was so loud and so close she thought it had come from inside her own head. The second bang was just as loud but not so close and she saw it for what it was. A knock. A lifeboat. A chance.

She leaped to her feet.

"That's him," she said. She was breathless as she fled toward the door. "That's got to be him."

It was a moment before she realized why she had stopped moving. She looked down and saw Gaston's arm across her body. He was holding her back.

"Open it."

Her father's voice came out strong and steady. It sounded like it always had. It sounded like home.

The heavy doors creaked as they swung open. Had they always been that loud? The corridor outside was – empty. She wanted to push Gaston's arm out of her way so that she could go right up to the doorway, but nothing was going to make a man appear in it, no matter how well she could see it.

"Well, that was a bit of a letdown." The words were so casual – so conversational – she almost didn't register alarm. But they were followed by a trill of a laugh that sent tingles up her spine.

Everyone turned as if they were of one mind, as if they were strapped together with wooden yokes.

"You sent me a message," he said. He was reclined in the king's chair, as if he had sat in it a thousand times. His frame was so slight – almost delicate – that his feet didn't even touch the floor. "Something about 'help, help, we're dying, can you save us?'" He cocked his head when he looked at them and rose slowly from the throne. "Now the answer is," he said, holding his hands out slightly – owning the space around him. He swatted Gaston's sword down like a fly. Did that hurt? "Yes, I can," he said. He tossed the little castle he had been holding – the one her father used to let her play with when she was a child – to a guard. "Yes, I can protect your little town," he looked at each of them in turn. "For a price."

"We sent you a promise of gold," the king said.

The man nearly rolled his eyes. "You see, I make – gold. No, what I want is something a little more 'special'." He drew the word out, long and lean, emphasizing the sounds of the 's' and 'c', making it sound visceral – snakelike. "My price," he said. He didn't take his eyes off her father's. "Is her."

One Mississippi . . . two Mississippi.

Everyone spoke at once.

"No," the king said.

"The lady is engaged – to me," Gaston said. His arm pressed protectively over her but it was too high and almost covered her face. She had to fight the urge to push it away.

"I wasn't asking if she was engaged," he said. He took a slow stroll as the words came out. "I'm not looking for – love." He gave an almost imperceptible laugh. "I'm looking for a caretaker," he announced, "for my rather large estate". He boxed his hands together – so expressive – as if were holding it right there between his palms. "It's her or no deal."

"Get out," the king said. "Leave!"

"As you wish," the man said.

That was it?

He didn't even glance at her as he passed by. He moved past her with a slow, jaunty gate, taking up so little space with his fine, precise movements and yet filling the room with his presence.

I can't let this happen. I can't let him leave.

"No, wait," she said. She did push Gaston's arm away then. The sound of her blood pounding in her ears nearly drowned out the click of her heels on the marble floor. She crossed the room and went right up to him. She looked at him, at his big, expressive eyes, hovering above his delicate frame. She was nearly as tall as him. She spoke the words clearly, so that there could be no mistake – no undoing what she had just done. "I will go with you."

The man laughed and clapped his hands together like a little child being promised a sweet. She stared at him. He was supposed to be frightening. How did he get away with things like that?

"No," the king said.

She turned and looked over her shoulder at him. For the first time – maybe ever – she saw that her father was afraid.

"I forbid it," Gaston said.

She didn't move from her spot on the floor, just looked up at her father.

"No one decides my fate but me," she said. She turned back to the man before her. "I shall go," she said.

He did something then, something strange, something almost – gentle. He gave her an out.

"It's forever, dearie," he said. His eyes locked onto hers and he raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. His tone was gentile, even affectionate.

"My family, my friends," she said. She watched him for any hint of deception. "They will all live?"

He lowered his eyes and gave the slightest of bows. "You have my word," he said.

"Then you have mine," she said. "I will go with you – forever."

"Deal," he said quickly. He laughed his delighted, childlike laugh, holding his hands clasped in front of him like it was Christmas morning.

"Belle," her father said. His voice was almost pleading, calling her – calling her back to her childhood. "Belle, you cannot do this. Please, you can not go with this – beast."

She did not turn to see the man's reaction, but her father's grimace hinted at it all the same.

"Father," she said. "Gaston," she said. She touched the young man lightly on the front of his chest – a touch that felt far more intimate than any she had shared with him in the past. A sudden rush of tenderness took hold of her when she saw what his face looked like. He looked like a little boy again, like the child she had grown up racing across the back gardens of her father's castle with. "It's been decided."

She didn't hear the man take a step – close the distance between her and himself. But she felt the softest, lightest touch on her back through the heavy fabric of her gown. The man's voice was so close, he was almost whispering in her ear.

"You know, she's right," he said. His voice held that same almost tenderness – compassion – pity? – that she had felt an instant before. "The deal," he said. And then his voice lilted into a hard, golden edge. "Is struck," he said.

She felt his hand, firmer on her back now, the warmth moving easily across the fabric.

"Oh," he said. "Congratulations on your little war." And then that little trill of a laugh again.

She didn't know if she turned toward the door then, or if he had somehow turned her, but his arm – so soft on her back – held her lightly against his side. He smiled a quiet little smile to himself as he walked toward the door, and she held her head high and never – not even once – looked back.

# # #

He didn't touch anything – not the locks on the doors or even the doors themselves. He just gave this little wave of his hand – you could barely see it, really – and the latches would open and the doors would give way.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

He walked so quickly for such a little man, and with a sense of purpose, like he couldn't wait to get her to where he wanted to go.

"Let's call it your room," he said.

She stopped so quickly she almost barreled him over when he stopped walking. She saw a small cell with a single cot and a slit of a window at the top.

"My… my room?" she said. She stared at him.

"Well, it sounds a lot better than dungeon," he said. He giggled.

His small hand took her arm so gently she hadn't realized he had touched her until he was shoving her inside like a frozen slab of meat. With that same tiny wave of his hand, the door slammed shut on her, leaving her in near total darkness. She heard him giggle with glee, clasping his hands together again, and then his footsteps disappeared down the corridor.

"Wait," she called. She knew she shouldn't call him back but she had to. "Wait, you can't just leave me in here!" she called. "You can't just leave me!" She slammed her hand against the door and felt the roughness of the uneven wood scrape against her palm.

Would he lock her in there forever? How long exactly was forever? But that didn't make any sense. Why bring her here if he was just going to lock her up in a dungeon for all of eternity? What good would that do? No. No, calm down. That doesn't make any sense at all. He's not going to leave me in here. He can't. He just . . . he went through so much trouble to bring me here. No, no he's not going to leave me in here. He just can't.

# # #

. . . she was following the strange little man through the marsh at the far end of the castle's woods. He was walking so quickly, stepping so lightly, she had to almost run to keep up. The feathers on the back of the black jacket he was wearing waved to her, bouncing like a little girl's curls. There was a reddish patch on the back of it, high – just between the man's shoulder blades. Funny. It looked like a heart.

I want to touch it. Can I touch it?


	2. Chapter 2

She jumped, as if she had been shocked, when the dungeon's small door creaked open. She almost fell out of her bed, stumbling to her feet in her confusion.

He eyed her skeptically, as if the rare jewel he had brought home from the market the night before were turning out to be made of glass.

"Good morning," he said. His skepticism only grew.

"Good," she started. But her voice was hoarse and unsteady. "Good morning," she said.

He stared at her a minute longer, like his suspicions that she were counterfeit were turning out to be true. Then he seemed to toss it off, and his voice took on a lighter tone, almost friendly.

"Sleep well?" he asked her. He stepped aside from the doorway and gave a grand sweep with his hand, as if welcoming in an honored guest.

"I," Belle started. She squinted a little as she stepped out into the light of the hallway. "I – don't know," she said. Her brain felt foggy. Wasn't she just at home?

"Yeah, that first night can be a doozy," he said. His tone when he said this was so familiar, like they were old friends exchanging secrets for the hundredth time. "Come along," he said. He breezed past her, not even hesitating to see if she would follow.

She took a faltering step and then another one. And that's when she saw it. A reddish patch – high – between the shoulder blades. I want to touch it. Can it touch it?

He stopped and turned slowly on his heel toward her. And that's when she realized she had stopped walking.

"Coming, dearie?" he asked.

She shook her head. She had to tear her eyes away from that patch on his jacket.

He followed her gaze and stared at her like she was crazy. How did he do that? He acted as if they had known each other forever. It was like he could be instantly – intimate.

"Yeah . . . yes," she stammered. "I'm – I'm coming."

He turned slowly and let out a long, low whistle. This one, it seemed to say, is clearly made out of glass.

# # #

The kitchen was dark and covered with stained glass windows that let some light in but not a lot. She tried to see out one of the clearer panes of glass but the image was distorted. And anyway, all she could see out there was the white of the snow that had been falling when they arrived last night.

"There's a water pump just there," he said. He waved vaguely in the direction of the windows, "and the larder's well stocked," he said. He waved a hand at two closed panel doors on the wall. As before he was talking a mile a minute and walking even faster. "I take my tea in the morning but nothing to eat until midday," he said. He passed his hand in front of a row of shiny copper pots and pans hanging from wrought iron hooks against the wall. They were so shiny and new-looking, they looked like toys.

She looked up then and realized that he was staring at her.

"Oh," she said. "Tea, right," she said. She laughed and shook her head.

She reached up to take the copper water kettle off the last hook above her head. When she couldn't quite reach it, she pressed a hand against the cold stone of the countertop, steadying herself to reach higher. She could almost get it if she could just leverage off the counter a little.

She felt the warmth on her back, and it stopped her. Her arm came back down.

He leaned in close, reaching past her and unhooked the kettle.

She felt his fingers move just a fraction of an inch and that was when she discovered that the warmth on her back was his hand, pressing so lightly and so gently she hadn't realized it was there.

He handed the kettle to her.

She took it and stared. His eyes were huge, like golden orbs floating on the surface of water. And what was registering for the first time was his heat. It radiated. She had assumed his touch would be cold when she first saw him, but it was the opposite. He radiated heat like the sun – which, she guessed wasn't all that strange because he was, after all, golden. But that was why she hadn't felt cold. When she had left her father's castle the day before it had been nighttime and snowing, and she hadn't even been wearing a coat. And yet she hadn't felt cold. He'd kept his arm around her all the time that they'd been walking and she hadn't felt cold.

His hand lingered on the kettle, as if she'd drop it if he let go. He leaned in closer to her so that his face was inches from hers.

"You know, it's not polite to stare, dearie," he whispered.

"Oh," she said. She laughed self-consciously. "I'm sorry," she said. She shook her head, laughing at herself. "I'll, um," she said. She could feel herself blushing. "I'll put the water on," she said. She laughed and took the kettle from him, turning her back so he wouldn't see the color on her face. She giggled. It was a habit. She did it whenever she was embarrassed.

"You do that," he said softly.

His voice had dropped lower. It sounded almost contemplative. But she ignored him, keeping her back turned and busying her hands with the water pump and the kettle. It wasn't until he left the kitchen that she let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding.

# # #

He rubbed his fingers against his palm as he wandered back out to the dining room. What a strange reaction. He had meant it to sound menacing. She certainly wasn't the first person who had stared. It was a sort of morbid fascination. Actually, it happened quite a lot. When people saw him for the first time, they were taken aback. They stared. They were frightened. She was frightened, wasn't she?

And that laugh, that soft tinkle of a sound – what was that about? It was like water rippling over smooth stones. Was she laughing at him? Some people laughed when they were nervous, but she hadn't seemed nervous. She'd seemed – giddy, almost shy. Shy was something people didn't get around him. Not anymore. Shy happened when you met a friendly stranger. Shy happened when you bumped into another person and spilled their drink. Shy didn't happen when you looked into the face of a monster. Revulsion happened. Fear happened. Horror happened. But not shy.

Ah, but was it trickeration? Had she feigned that, that shyness, that coquettish laughter? Was she trying to disarm him, to trick him into letting her go? Perhaps she was testing him, probing for the weaknesses in his armor. Well, she would see soon enough that he didn't have any. Because of all the chinks he knew might be there, he was going to show her not a one.

He heard her coming just a moment before she entered the dining room, and he had to run to get into his seat before she entered. He leaned back, his fingers steepled in front of him and eyed her coolly, feigning indifference.

He started again, rapid fire, the way he liked. He wanted her off balance, uneasy. She should be more afraid than she seemed.

"You will serve me my meals, and you will clean the Dark Castle," he said.

She was fumbling with the tea and the cup and the saucer.

"I – I understand," she said.

"You will dust my collection and launder my clothing," he said. He watched her carefully for her reaction. Would she be frightened to have to touch his clothes?

"Yes," she said.

"You will fetch me fresh straw when I'm spinning at the wheel," he said.

She looked confused at that one but smiled through it. "Got it," she said.

"Oh, and you will skin the children I hunt for their pelts," he said.

She dropped the cup. Check mate.

"That one was a quip," he said lightly. "Not serious."

"Oh," she said. She laughed again, that same coquettish laugh, and he looked at her hard. Was it a trick? "Right," she said. She laughed again.

He watched her as she dropped to the floor to retrieve the cup. She had the litheness of youth.

"Oh, my, I'm so sorry," she said. She shook her head and looked up at him.

He shook his head, not getting her meaning.

"It's – it's chipped," she said. She held it up a little higher for him to see.

He didn't say anything, just watched her.

"You can hardly see it," she said. She held the cup up again and showed it to him.

He answered without thinking – honestly, and without thinking.

"Well, it's just a cup," he said.

Damn. That was it. That was the moment he should have taken to disarm her. He should have threatened to punish her, so that she would be good and properly scared. But he had missed it. How had he missed it?

"Oh," she said. She laughed and shook her head, almost like it had been silly of her to be worried.

He leaned his head back against his chair, and he watched.


	3. Chapter 3

He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he had a collection. The library alone was cavernous. There were rows upon rows of leather-bound books, stretching so high toward the ceiling they disappeared into shadow. She took a few steps onto the ladder and ran her fingers lightly over the spines. Many of the titles she could read, but there were several – shelves full – that were in all different languages. She wondered if he could read all of those. Was that part of his power? Or did he just keep them because they were beautiful? Her hand lingered over one. It was familiar and she pulled it from the shelf. It was a story her father had used to read to her when she was little. Her eyes drifted over all the volumes she had never read, but then returned to the one in her hands. It was familiar. And she needed that just now.

She took it down with her and considered how she might ask him if she could take it with her into her cell that night. It had been hard to fall asleep yesterday, especially because it was so cold. It was cold everywhere inside the castle. She wondered how he didn't feel it but then thought maybe he didn't because he was so warm. She only ever felt warm when she was standing right beside him.

# # #

After dinner, the house was quiet. The shadows seemed to lean in from every corner, but it didn't feel ominous.

It felt as cold inside his bedroom as she imagined it felt outside. It didn't help that she had chills running up her spine whenever she heard the softest creak behind her that might signal his approach. She didn't really know if she ought to be in his bedroom at all. She tried to recount the duties he had listed for her in the morning, but she had been so nervous she could hardly focus on what he had been saying.

She remembered that he had told her to launder his clothing, and his clothing must be kept in his bedroom, right? . . . meaning that she was allowed to go into his bedroom to collect his worn clothes. But maybe that was only alright during the afternoons. She felt odd being in a man's bedroom – I mean, that wasn't very ladylike – but then again, he had said she would serve as a caretaker and caretakers went everywhere, right? And he had said she should clean the castle. Did that include making his bed in the morning? And he hadn't specifically said he wanted his bed turned down for him in the evening, but it seemed like something he needed. After all, everyone needed a little care, didn't they? A folded duvet corner just so he would feel – looked after.

Enough of this, she told herself firmly. I'm going to do what I planned to do and be done with it. She would start with a fire. She didn't know what time he went to bed at night – did he even really sleep? – but she would light a fire in the bedroom fireplace so it would be warm when he arrived. She found wood and kindling right next to the hearth, but no matches. Where would he keep the matches? After a brief and rather futile search in the near darkness, she decided to just use her own candle to light it.

It was very dry in the room and the kindling caught right away. She blew on the flame lightly until it glowed brighter and caught the wood. There. Not bad. She sat by the fire until it grew bright and then dimmed a little, then flickered until it found its even pace. Finally, she started to feel the chill creeping out of her. She sat in front of the fire as long as she dared, and then hopped up and started toward the bed. Carefully, she folded back the corner of the heavy down comforter and pressed it lightly so that it would lay flat. It looked nice. She turned and started for the door, but then stopped. She turned back to look at the fire and the freshly turned down bed. And she remembered something the servants used to do for her when she was a little girl.

She made her way slowly over to the closet and opened the heavy door. His clothes were lined up neatly on heavy wooden hangers, and when she opened the door it smelled like cedar wood and also something else – a soft honey and resin scent – that she realized must be him. Her hand lingered over the soft fabric of a satin honey shirt that she imagined must exactly match the color of his eyes. And then the smooth red leather of a neatly tailored jacket. And then her fingers rested on something soft, velvety. She took it out and looked at it in the light. It was the jacket – the black one – the one he had been wearing the night before when he had come to her father's castle, the one he had been wearing in her dream with the dark red patch between the shoulder blades. I want to touch it. Can I touch it?

She glanced over her shoulder just to make sure he hadn't come up the stairs when she wasn't looking. The room was empty, just as before. She turned back and looked at the black velvety suede of the jacket. Her fingers singled out one after another of the black feathers adorning the jacket's chest and back, and again the feathers bounced like a little girl's curls, just like they had when he had put his arm around her and walked her out of her father's castle – just as they had in her dream when she'd walked behind him. I want to touch it. Can I touch it?

She brushed just the very tips of her fingers against that reddish patch on the back of the jacket. It was incredibly soft, like crushed red velvet, and felt so delicate and so soft that she thought she could put her hand right through it with little effort. And when she ran her fingers over it a second time she smelled it again – that honey-soft resin scent that she smelled whenever he was close. She was amazed at how soft it all was. Weren't men's' clothes supposed to be coarser, like the stiffer vests and jackets that Gaston wore? She let her fingers drift over the patch one last time, incredibly slowly, feeling the crushed red velvet between her fingers and breathing in that sparkling, resin scent. Then she placed the jacket back into the closet and felt instantly sad that she wasn't touching it anymore.

She came next to what she had been looking for when she had started. It was a very thin white linen shirt, almost sheer, and delicate as a spider web to her touch. It had been on the bed when she had come in to tidy up the room in the morning, so she knew it must be what he wore to sleep at night. She took it off the hanger and ran her fingers lightly over the crinkles in the fabric. So soft. Next she removed a pair of loose-fitting pajama pants from a hanger and draped them over her arm.

She tried not to picture him in these clothes because it seemed inappropriate, but it was hard not to wonder because the clothes he wore in the daytime were so fitted – neatly tailored jackets, slim-fitting pants that seemed to hug him like a second skin. It was hard to imagine him in things that were flowy and soft.

She took the clothes over to the fireplace and warmed them there for a moment. Then she laid them carefully down at the foot of the bed so that the firelight would keep them warm. If he were cold – ever – if his heat didn't keep him warm, he wouldn't be tonight. She smiled.

# # #

He was spinning at the wheel when she came downstairs, just as he had been when she had left. He barely glanced over his shoulder at her when she entered, and when he did, his eyes hesitated only for a second on the book she was holding.

"I – I hope you don't mind. I borrowed this from your library upstairs," she said.

The wheel creaked a little as he turned it, golden spindles of thread slipping out between his deft fingers and falling into a loosely curled pile on the spinning table.

"It's something my father used to read to me when I was little," she said.

He didn't look up when she spoke.

"Anyway, I wondered if you might let me borrow it for tonight?"

He didn't answer – just kept turning the wheel, letting the golden spindles drift slowly toward the tabletop. Then, almost as an afterthought he said, "as you wish, my dear."

She stopped and looked at him a long moment. His voice had been so soft she wasn't sure she had heard him correctly – wasn't sure she had heard him at all. His demeanor, the way he positioned himself with his back to her – told her flatly that he could care less what she did but his voice . . . it was so . . . tender? She hovered just behind his left shoulder watching him, holding the book up against her chest. He turned the wheel, slow, unhurried, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

After what seemed like twenty minutes or so, his hand paused – fingers resting very lightly against the edge of the wheel, but he didn't turn it. Instead, he let his hand drop. He turned around to face her and he was so close, his knees almost bumped her legs when he turned.

"Well, I guess that's enough for today," he said.

She smiled and felt that familiar blush creep over her. She hadn't realized how close she had been standing to him all that time. Didn't it bother him? She hadn't meant to do that. It was just – it was so cold everywhere in the castle except. . . She stepped back to give him space to stand up and felt the chill air against her back.

When he stood, he was right up against her. If she had swayed forward even the tiniest bit, she would have touched him. His golden eyes drifted down until they met hers. She couldn't look away.

"It's time for bed now, my dear," he said. He said it so softly – tenderly – like before. He slipped the book soundlessly out of her arms.

She smiled. He was so warm. It almost felt like she was melting.

And then he stepped to the side, gallant and noble, and the whisper-soft brush of his arm rested on her back as he wrapped it around her and began to walk. She moved with him, floated. His warmth made her dizzy and she smelled that honey golden resin scent, like sap just uncurling from a tree. She tried not to lean into him as she walked, but she couldn't help it. He was so warm, and he made her feel so – safe. He was holding her more securely now, his arm not just a warm spot on her back, but wrapped around her more tightly. She couldn't help it. She leaned against him while they walked. She was so dizzy she felt almost sleepy. It was a long moment before she realized they had stopped walking.

She opened her eyes and then realized that she had closed them. She looked up at him unsteadily. His eyes looked down at her, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Good night," he said. He held out the book to her.

"Good night," she said. She smiled up at him and then stood there, not moving, not able to move away from that warm, soft place right by his side.

She felt his hand on her back again, gentle and light, and he guided her with the softest pressure into her cell. He reached his hand out to the side very slowly and drew a small, slow arc in the air, closing the cell door between them.

She stood there for what felt like a long time, holding the book up against her chest in the dark. Then slowly she moved back, until she felt the mattress behind her legs and sat down. She reached out toward where the nightstand was, feeling for its surface so she could set the book down. She felt its uneven wooden planks and then something doughy on top of it. Her candle? Had she brought it in there? And then a small square box at its side. She picked it up. She shook it. It rattled.

Her fingers slid the tiny box open in a way she knew by heart. She struck a match and brought the tip of it to her candle. The light began to reflect off the stone walls, shedding light over the small interior of the room. She looked at the candle and then at the matches in her hand. She couldn't remember if she had brought in the candle – maybe she had – but she knew she hadn't brought in the matchbox. That could only mean – he did it. When? When she was upstairs in his room? Couldn't be. He was spinning that whole time. But was he? What if he had slipped in to her room while she'd been in his?

And something else. The mattress felt much softer than it had the first night. She stood up and touched its surface. There, under her fingers, was a heavy down comforter in a quilted duvet with pale pink flowers on the front of it and a light blue ruffle along the edges. He must have known that she had been cold last night, but how? She touched the downy surface of the blanket and then squeezed a handful of it in her hand. It was very, very thick and heavy – even heavier than the one that had been on his bed. He must have known she had been cold, but how?

She moved the candle down the length of the bed and saw a slight shadow – a dark shape – under the bed. She knelt down and held the light closer. It was a box – a big, dark colored box – so big she had to set the candle down on the floor so she could use both hands to pick it up. She knelt on the floor beside the bed and laid the box onto it. She opened it slowly, and her breath caught. Inside was a thick, soft white gown with flowers embroidered into the front panels. The flowers were embroidered in gold – his gold – the gold threads he had spun on his wheel. She ran her fingers very, very lightly over the embroidery. Had he made this? With his hands? For her?

# # #

He walked heavily up the stairs, letting his footsteps echo against the stone walls, for once not caring how much noise he made. He scowled. This was not going to plan. His brows drew together in frustration as he unbuttoned the cuff of his dress shirt. He had firmly decided that after this morning's misstep, he was going to scare her. That's what he had meant to do. When he had drawn up so close to her they were _touching_ – she should have been scared. She should have been scared then. But she hadn't been.

And then he had said it, those carefully, painstakingly carefully selected words – words so subtle and yet so menacing, words that were meant to be threatening, to be frightening – to assume an intimacy that should make her shrink away from him. _It's time for bed now, my dear_. Hadn't he said it correctly? Had he said it too quietly? Had she not heard him? He stopped on the stairway and considered going back down. He had a wild notion to go running back to the door and to say the words again – to make sure that she heard. _It's time for bed now, my dear. It's time for bed now, my dear_. Why hadn't it worked? Why hadn't she been afraid? Didn't she know what he could do to her?

He scowled again and turned around, continuing his trek up the stairs. No, he could not go running back down there. He would look like a fool, like a boy crying wolf over and over to get attention. No. He would have to try harder next time. He would have to say it more clearly. He would have to invade her personal space – maybe even touch her when he said it. That would scare her, right? But then why hadn't she been scared tonight? He had put his arm around her – tight too – not lightly like the last few times. He had _wrapped_ his arm around her, and he was sure she had felt it this time. He had even let their bodies touch while he was walking her down the hall. But at the end of it, her eyes had been closed. Why had she closed her eyes? And she had looked up at him – so trusting – like a fawn waking from sleep.

He shook his head. What was wrong with her? Alright, fine. Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be the day. He would threaten to punish her. Or, no, he would actually punish her. Yes. He would take her by the arm and squeeze the tiniest bit, just so that she saw he was strong. He would back her up against a wall. It would have to be over something silly. Maybe he would even raise his hand, as if to slap her. He would . . .

He stopped. It was a sensation like the floor dropping out from under your feet and then rushing back up and shoving you into the air.

There was a fire. It was crackling in his fireplace. And his bed – the corner of the blanket had been folded back. Had she done that? And his clothes – his night clothes – they were draped over the foot of the bed near the fire. They were – warming. He strode quickly over to the bed and touched it and then touched his clothes as if to make sure they were real. Had she touched these? He felt almost – violated. What had she been doing in there? And why had she done all of this? He hadn't told her to do any of this. He nearly ran back to the doorway and then stopped again. He turned, very slowly, back toward the light and warmth of his bedroom. Had she done all of this? For him?

He rubbed his fingers against his palm. She had done it again – disarmed him, confused him, put him – _him_ – off balance. He knew he should punish her. He knew he should want to punish her. But he didn't. He didn't want to do that – at all.


	4. Chapter 4

The door latch clicked open, and she was slow to wake. She had been so comfortable in her bed, with the heavy down comforter swaddling her like a baby. It was thick and warm, and it smelled like cedar wood and honey – just like him. She opened her eyes to find him staring at her. He hadn't entered the room, just stood there in the doorway, regarding her silently. The fingers of his left hand were rubbing against his palm absently.

She smiled. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," he replied. His tone was flat. He didn't smile.

Reluctantly, she sat up and pushed the heavy blanket down to her waist. At the sight of her in her nightgown, he turned away, and stood in the entryway with his back to her. She smiled and felt a giggle trying to break through her lips. He was _such_ a gentleman. She had the sudden impression that he could be so easily scandalized.

She stood up and crossed the room, standing just at his back. "I'll only be a moment," she said. She leaned in close to him and placed her hand on the door's slide bar, pulling it nearly closed between them.

He didn't say anything, and he certainly did not turn around. He simply nodded once, and stepped out of the way. She caught a glimpse of his expression, which she could only describe as being – grim.

# # #

Concentrate. It has to be done. Focus. Focus on the job at hand. Concentrate. Concentrate. Concen . . .

The door creaked open at his back and he turned.

_Good Lord._

"So?" she said. She looked up at him, a coquettish tilt to her head. "What do you think?" she asked. She smiled, and two perfectly formed dimples appeared in the sides of her soft, puffy cheeks. They looked like clouds – like cotton candy at the fair – like the faces of freshly washed children, their curls still damp in his hand. Concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate.

She was wearing the dress he had left her – in the box under the bed. He had tied a dark blue ribbon around the dress, and he could see now that she had removed it – tied it around her hair, letting her chestnut brown curls tumble loosely in a spray around the ribbon's bow. He stared at her, his heart like a trip hammer in his chest.

"Do you like it?" she asked. She smoothed down the folds of the soft blue fabric of the skirt, just a hint of shyness in her voice.

The ribbons were long. They hung down her back, brushing so lightly against the back of her shoulder blades. He wanted to smooth it. He wanted to . . .

"I mean, I – I really like it," she said. She looked up at him, and her eyes lost some of their playful quality. "I – wanted to thank you – for this," she said. She touched the fabric of skirt. "It's lovely – really," she said. She smiled, and her bright eyes looked up at him. What was that? Curiosity? Questioning? Hopefulness? Concentrate.

"And – and for the gown and the blanket," she said. She gestured into the cell behind her but his eyes were riveted to her face. She smiled and took a step closer to him. He had to force himself not to step away. "That was very thoughtful of you," she said. She smiled and looked up at him – so close – _too_ close.

"No matter," he said, briskly. He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Can't let you catch your death now, dearie. You'd be no use to me then," he said. He leaned in a little – imposing.

But she giggled. She giggled like a little girl and when she looked back up at him, he couldn't – concentrate. Concentrate. _Concentrate_.

He clapped his hands together in front of him.

"Come along now, my dear," he said. He wrapped an arm around her and began walking her toward the kitchen.

She smiled and drifted along easily beside him, and instead of her leaning away, he wanted to. His arm burned where it touched her back. He wanted to pull it away. He wanted to cut it off. He wanted to shove her away from him. This was becoming a dangerous game. No. He had to stay in control. He had to stick to the plan. This morning he would teach her to fear him.

# # #

He was sitting back in his chair when she came in with the tea. He eyed her as she carried in the tray. But this time she didn't set it down at the opposite end of the table like she had the morning before. This time she carried the tray right up to him – set it down on the table just beside him – and began making his tea for him right there. He stared at her – hard. If she was unnerved, she didn't show it. Her hands gave not the slightest tremble, as they had the day before. It was clear this would be his last chance. If he could not scare her today – if he could not control her – then he would never be able to. She was so comfortable already – too comfortable. He had to stop it now.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

Her voice cut into his thoughts. He had been staring at her, but he hadn't been watching. He had missed the little teacup that she had placed on the table in front of him.

"Is it not what you wanted?" she asked. She titled her head and looked at him. "I can get you something else."

"No," he said. He said it a little too forcefully and caught himself. "It's hot."

She gave that confused half-smile she had been giving him almost consistently since her arrival. She shook her head and gave a small laugh.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," she said.

Damn – it – focus!

"It's hot," he said. He took his time so he wouldn't falter his words. "So I'm waiting for it to cool."

"Oh," she said. She laughed, that water on rock laugh, and shook her head. He saw the blush as she turned away, creeping down from her cheeks and spreading over her neck.

He grabbed her wrist – tight – so she couldn't run away.

She turned, her eyes widening. But she didn't recoil as he had expected – as he had hoped? She just stood there, looking at him and waiting.

He held her small wrist in his hand, the birdlike bones burning his palm like the edges of an anvil that had been left sitting in the sun. He forced himself not to let go. He forced himself to lean in and not to speak – to make her ask why he had grabbed her.

But she didn't ask. And he didn't answer. And he thought they might literally grow old and die right there if something didn't break this awful silence.

She smiled – almost gently then – and he was . . . embarrassed?

"Was there something you needed?" she asked. Her voice was supremely gentle, like she was talking to a small child – a small, broken child – with a head wound.

"Yes," he said. He snapped the word out, and then checked himself. Too quick. "Yes," he repeated more slowly. "I would like you to bring me some bread from the larder. I'm going into town today, and I won't be back for several hours, so I will take my breakfast before I go."

He said it very slowly, letting each word sink in. He watched the contours of her face, felt the quickening of her pulse in his hand, saw her thinking. That was it. Good. He wanted her to think. He wanted her to make a plan. He wanted her to try to escape so that he could catch her. And then the consequences would solve his problem.

"Of course," she said. It was whisper soft.

His eyes pierced into her.

"I'll go get it," she said. She applied a slight resistance to pull her arm away, but not much. She looked at him.

He locked his gaze onto hers. Steady. Piercing. He held on a moment longer. He let her feel who was in control. And then, very slowly, he let go.

# # #

He watched her re-enter the dining room, carrying a silver tray. There was a baguette on top of a silver charger. A long, serrated bread knife lay beside it. The tray rattled when she set it down – again, just beside him, as she had done earlier with the tea.

"There was some jam in the outside pantry," she said. She took the small, chilled glass jar and placed it on the table in front of him. "And I also brought some cheese in from out there," she said. The dimples creased her cheeks.

He eyed her coolly, his fingers steepled in front of him.

"I thought you might like to bring some with you," she said. "Since you won't be back here for lunch." She looked at him. Her blue eyes settled on his face and she stood still.

He leaned back and locked his gaze onto hers. "That will be fine," he said.

She smiled a little. Dimples. Cotton candy. Curls.

He watched her cut a few pieces from the heavy block of cheese with a small, curved butter knife. Then she wrapped them in paper and laid them alongside the jar of jam. She wiped the knife clean on a white, linen cloth and laid it down on the surface of the table. Then she drew out the long serrated knife and touched it to the crust of the bread.

He leapt lithely onto his feet, taking her wrist in his hand before she could move. He heard the softest rush of air between her lips. A gasp. His left hand was pressing against her back, and his right held her wrist tightly.

She turned, faltering, and looked up at him. Her face was so close to his he could feel the small puffs of breath escaping her mouth. He smiled, predatorily. If he could have made his pupils dilate, he would have.

"You'd better let me do that, dearie. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself," he said. His lips parted, and he saw her eyes drop down to his teeth. That's it. Be afraid. He let his right hand slide with a heavy pressure down over her wrist and then her hand. He removed the knife handle from her grip. Her eyes didn't move from the surfaces of his jagged, sharp teeth. He stared at her, watching for the familiar flicker of fear he knew would be there any second. He gave his soft trill of a laugh, letting it sound a bit more maniacal than usual.

She smiled and blushed dark red. She giggled, the dimples pressing deep into the sides of her gumdrop cheeks, and shook her head. Her curls bounced off the surface of her shoulders.

"As you wish," she said. Her voice was satin and velvet, and she flicked her eyes up to meet his. Her gaze was laughing – teasing almost. Was she mocking him? Throwing his own words back against him?

She blushed and ducked her head, stepping away from the table.

"I'll, um, I'll go get you a bottle and make some cold tea for you to take with you," she said. She turned and fairly ran back into the kitchen.

He stood there, staring after her. Was that it? Had she shown the fear he had been waiting for? It hadn't looked quite right. It hadn't looked quite – fearful.

# # #

"Here you go," she said. She smiled brightly and held up a little bottle that was already half filled with cold water. She rejoined him at the table and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him as he sliced through the narrow loaf of bread.

He gave a slight nod, acknowledging her return, but kept his eyes on the table in front of him. He trained his eyes on the knife, cutting smoothly through the loaf but watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye.

She gave a little flounce when she joined him, making a point to stand directly at his side. She smiled and glanced at him, looking much too pleased with herself. Did she think this was a game, that he was playing with her? Was he – playing with her?

He watched her place a brown sugar cube on top of the white linen napkin and then fold the napkin over it. She used the spoon to tap it lightly, breaking the cube into little brown crystals. Then she lifted the napkin, creasing it so that the sugar ran neatly down its fold and sprinkled into the bottle of water.

He had stopped cutting and was now just watching her.

She sealed the bottle and turned it over once, twice to mix the sugar in. Then she opened it and set it down on the table. She picked up the teapot, resting her first two fingers lightly on the cover to keep it in place, and then filled the rest of the bottle with tea. She mixed it again, turning it over a few times until the tea had evenly mixed with the water. Then she placed the bottle, the bread he had sliced, a few pieces of cheese and the jam into a leather satchel with a drawstring top. She drew the string tight and then tied it so there was a loop at the end, for carrying.

She turned to hand him the bag and then stopped. She seemed stunned when she looked at his face. Had she not realized he was watching her? It took her a moment to recover.

"Here," she started, but her voice faltered.

He watched her.

"Here you go," she said. She dropped her eyes so that she was not looking directly at him when she spoke but at a point around his shoulder instead. She held out the little bag, and her hand trembled just a little.

He took it from her.

Her eyes moved from his shoulder to near his neck, to a point off to the side and then finally to his face. Her expression was remarkable. It was a mixture of confusion and wonder and disbelief.

He titled his head, knitting his brows, and her eyes dropped like stones to the floor. She stepped back, away from him, until nearly two feet of space stood between them. She kept her eyes on the floor and didn't move. It was like she was trying to blend in to the furniture. He shook his head. Her reactions were so odd sometimes.

"Very well," he said.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his face.

"I suppose I will be off then," he said.

She nodded, not looking at him, and returned her gaze to the floor.

He turned, as if to leave, and then spun quickly to face her.

She actually jumped.

"One more thing," he said. He announced it jovially. This part he would make sound like a game. "I have something I want you to do for me while I'm away."

"Of course," she said. She smiled very lightly. "What is it?"

He set the bag down on the table and crossed the room in long, even strides. He stopped just next to the spinning wheel. He waited for her to follow, but she didn't. She seemed rooted to her spot on the floor.

"Come here now, dearie," he said. He smiled the way a tiger does when it first scents its prey.

She didn't make even the smallest of movements in his direction. Instead, she looked up at him, breathing lightly as if she couldn't quite catch her breath.

He held out his hand toward her. "Come to me now, dear. There's no need to be afraid," he said. He said it lightly, but low too, letting his eyes warn her that he was starting to lose patience.

Her first step was jerky, and the rest of her body seemed reluctant to follow. Then slowly she made her way over to him, keeping her eyes on the floor the whole time. She stopped when she was still at least two steps away. She hesitated there, looking at his outstretched hand like it was an animal she was afraid might bite her.

He smiled to himself. This was working already.

Then she looked up at him, and he felt the smile slipping from his face.

Her eyes were round and bright in a wounded animal sort of way. Her lips were parted slightly, and she was still taking in those quick puffs of breath. Her expression was open and utterly unguarded – achingly vulnerable. And then she laid her hand whisper-light into his and took the final two steps so that she was standing right in front of him, holding his hand.

He closed his hand around hers, squeezing it a touch. He reached out with his other arm and folded her against his side. He turned her and guided her to a seat at the wheel. Placing his hands on both her shoulders, he moved her until she was sitting on the small bench seat. She turned just her head and looked up at him, her cheek brushing against his sleeve when she did. She titled her head just a little. Her cheeks were flushed pink, but she gave him a small smile.

"Are you going to show me how?" she asked. Her voice sounded light – even hopeful.

"How to do what, my dear?" he asked.

"To spin," she said, "like you do?" She smiled a little more now, and he felt a knot in his stomach start to loosen. "I've never done it before," she said. She turned back toward the wheel and touched it with the tips of her fingers.

He almost laughed but stopped himself. "Oh no, my dear, it takes a lot more than a wheel and some straw to start spinning gold," he said. "No, what I want you to do while I'm gone is a little easier than that."

She smiled and looked up at him. "What is it?" she asked.

"I want to you to take the strands that I've completed," he said. He waved his hand over the bunches of crinkly, sparkly gold thread that were lying on the surface of the spinning table and collecting in a basket on the floor. "And I want you to wind them into spools for me. Can you do that?"

"Of course," she said. She smiled fully now. "I mean, yes, I," she said. She flushed a little more. "I can definitely do that for you." She tucked her mouth behind her shoulder when she spoke, seeming suddenly shy.

"Good," he said. "That's good."

She smiled and let out the softest jingle of a laugh.

"Oh, and there's one more thing," he said. He held up a finger. He waited until she met his eyes again before he finished. "You'll be wearing – these," he said.

She stilled completely when she saw what he was holding. They were heavy, wrought iron chains with thick metal cuffs, and he held them up in one hand as if they weighed nothing.

"Wh – Why?" she asked. She looked up at him.

He leaned in very close to her so that his face was inches from hers.

"Because, my dear," he said. His voice dropped so low it sounded venomous even to him. "I can't have you escaping while I'm gone."

She shook her head. She looked so confused. Hadn't the girl ever seen chains before?

"But I wouldn't," she said. She shook her head again and looked up at him.

"You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," he said. His voice dripped of honey and venom.

She tilted her head and seemed to consider this for a moment.

"Now," he said. He drew himself up to his full height and fixed his features into the most evil-looking grin he could manage. "Give me – your hands."

His skin prickled with the intensity of an electric charge, and he stood ready to pounce on her, to grab her wrists and snap the cuffs shut tight before she had the chance to pull back.

She looked down at her hands in her lap and then lifted them, holding her arms out to him. Her wrists were turned up, showing a long expanse of creamy pale skin so new and delicate that he could see the fine blue lines of her veins beneath the skin.

He stepped back, as if her touch would burn him.

She reached for him, straightening her arms at the elbows and offering them up to him to take. She looked at him – open and guileless – and reached, reached, _reached_ – for him.

He wanted to slap her arms away, but he was as rooted to his spot as if the chains had been bolted around him. What manner of _avarice_ could this be?

She sat, completely still, looking up at him. Her arms were held rock steady now, without even the slightest waver or tremor.

He knelt, incredibly slowly in front of her, and her eyes followed his all the way down. He took one of her wrists in his hand, as fine and thin as a herringbone comb, and tenderly – so tenderly – placed the cuff around it. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on hers as he latched the cuff closed with a click. He gave the slightest of nods, as if to ask if she were ok, and she nodded back.

Then he stood, holding the other end of the chain in both his hands and wound it once, twice, three times around the base of the spinning wheel. He blocked her view with his back as he worked so that she would not see that his hands had begun shaking. He steadied himself for a moment. Focus. Breathe. Concentrate. Then he stepped back in front of her and knelt down again, taking her other wrist in his hand and holding it more securely than he had the first one. He held her wrist and looked at her eyes, and she gave a bare, nearly imperceptible nod. He forced himself to move, to bring one hand to the other – cuff to wrist and then click. Concentrate. Concentrate. _Concentrate_.

He leaned back on his heel and studied her – appraising. He took a breath and then leaned in. He raised his hand, forcing it to be steady, and touched her face incredibly lightly.

"Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully, my dear," he said. He kept his eyes locked onto hers so that she couldn't look away. "Are you listening?"

She nodded, her cheek brushing against the inside of his palm where he was holding her face.

"I'm listening," she whispered.

"I want you to be good for me while I'm gone, do you understand me?" he asked.

She nodded again. Cheek. Brush. Palm.

"If you are not," he said. He held his free hand up in front of her face, finger extended in warning. "I will know. Do you understand me?"

She nodded again. "I understand," she whispered.

"And if I return to find that you've disobeyed while I was gone, then you will be punished – very severely. Do you understand?" he said.

"I understand," she whispered. She pressed her lips softly together when she looked at him, and he felt the small dimple appear in her cheek where he was touching her.

He sat back. "Good," he said.

He released his gentle hold on her face and began to move his hand away. And then she made this tiny movement – it could have been an accident – but she looked down and to the side almost like she was trying to look at his wrist. And that movement – it had the effect of pressing her cheek into his palm for just a second – like she was trying to hold on.

His hand dropped away, like she had slapped him, and he nearly jumped to his feet. He stared at her.

"When will you be back?" she asked. She rested her hands in her lap, the links of the chains spilling down over her legs and onto the floor. "Will it be long?"

"Yes," he said. He snapped the word out and then checked himself. "Yes, it will be dark when I come back."

There was a short intake of breath and then she nodded.

"Okay," she said softly.

He gave a regal bow, but there was no smile on his face, and he turned on his heel toward the table. He snatched the little satchel up in one hand and then forced himself to walk – slow – toward the door, even though he wanted to run.


	5. Chapter 5

She sat at the wheel, twisting her wrist inside the heavy metal cuff and watched him walk away from her and toward the door. She had never been alone in the castle before, and even when she was alone in the library or her room – when he was far away in another part of the house – she had always known he wasn't too far. The thought of being there by herself, when the door shut behind him – it was unnerving.

"Wait," she called. She sat up a little taller and looked at the red patch on his jacket. "Please," she added softly. She twisted the cuff around her wrist.

He stopped, his back still turned, and then swiveled slowly on his heel to face her.

"You," she started. How to ask this question? "You will come back for me, won't you?"

A smile – a full smile – turned the corners of his mouth up, etching the sides of his face with those impeccably drawn laugh lines.

"Of course," he said. His normally honey tones dripped with a hint of laughter and a slightly sardonic air. He gave a stately bow and then straightened.

She smiled. But that was not it – exactly.

"But," she said. She swallowed. "But it's safe here, right? I mean, no one can get in here except for you, right?" she asked.

His brows knitted together in question and he looked at her.

She waited. Before she would have jumped in to explain, but now she recognized this look. It was the look he had when he was thinking. He weighed all words very carefully, whether he said them or they were said to him. Was that why he spoke so slowly?

He walked back to her in measured, even strides, and she felt herself relax a little when he got close. He leaned down so that he could look directly into her face.

"What is it that you're asking me, child?" he said. He said it very gently and his voice was low and velvety soft, a tone he only used with her when they were in private.

"I guess," she said. She twisted the cuff and turned herself around on the seat so that she was fully facing him.

When she did this, he placed a hand on the seat next to her and then knelt onto floor in front of her so that they were eye-level to each other. He leaned in studying her face, his other arm draped over his bent knee.

"I guess, I was thinking," she started. She looked at the curtain beside her that blocked her view of the outside and then back at him. "I've never – been here before all by myself," she said.

He listened to her intently, leaning toward her, probing her face with his eyes.

"And, if something were to happen," she said. She looked at him, hoping he would understand.

He drew in a little closer so that they were almost touching. "Go on, my dear," he said.

When he leaned in like that, she felt the warmth of him enveloping her. It was like their own private space. He leaned back a little then, breaking the spell – so she could focus? – and he watched her.

"If something were to happen," she started again. "If I needed you," she said. She pressed her lips together and saw his eyes drop briefly to the side of her face and then raise again to meet hers.

"Yes," he said. He nodded, encouraging her. He was looking at her so intently. It was like he was listening with his whole body.

"What would I do," she finished. "If I needed you?"

His smile was almost kind but tinged with a line of suspicion.

"Well then, you would call to me," he said.

"Call to you," she asked. She shook her head. "But I don't understand. If you weren't here, how would you hear me if I called to you?"

He smiled then, the kindness and suspicion both intensified, dancing across the surface of his eyes when he looked at her. He leaned in so that he was touching her now, his chest against the front of her knees, and laid his hand over both of hers in her lap. His fingers rested lightly on her wrists and the edges of the cuffs.

"Here this, my dear, are you listening to me?" he asked. His golden eyes were fixed on her.

She nodded. "I'm listening," she whispered.

"If at any time you ever need me, all you have to do is say my name," he said.

She looked down at his golden hand – so delicate and fine – like a piece of art resting on her hands. "That's it?" she asked.

"That's it," he said. He smiled a little.

"Even if you're not here?" she asked.

"Any time you call to me, no matter where I am, I will come for you," he said.

She took in a slight breath. "You mean forever?" she whispered. She hadn't meant to say it. She hadn't even realized the words had slipped out.

He leaned back a little and took his hand off of the surface of hers.

"Forever," he said. He said it lightly, like the ending to a magic trick or a story, but the way he looked at her. It was – sincere.

# # #

The door closed behind him, and even though he knew she couldn't see him, he refused to look back. No. Better to keep his distance. Distance is measured in strides, and strides are more than just metres.

He walked to the edge of the clearing, to a tree a stone's throw away from the front door. He reached up and wrapped his hand around a heavy branch, its bark curled and gnarled from years of winter storms. He pulled down once – just to test its strength – and then swung himself lightly up onto it. He settled his back against the tree's curved trunk, leaning his head against it. He lifted his left foot to rest on the surface of the branch in front of him, bending his knee and draping his arm over it. His right leg hung down over the branch's edge, his foot swinging smoothly forward and back. The fingers of his left hand rubbed absently against the palm.

She was smart – he'd give her that much – offering her arms up to him like that. No doubt she had already seen it – the bolt – she was ready to work it into her plan. He had watched her make it, seen the gears fairly turning in her head. It had gone exactly as he had planned, and he allowed a slow, wide smile to spread across his lips. He had told her he would leave her alone. She had believed him. Oh, she had feigned the innocent princess – the chaste and obedient child – making him tea, packing him lunch. Did she think he was an idiot? A fool?

And all the while, she must have been thinking how easily she had tricked him. He laughed. She would soon see. But then why . . . he shook his head, as if to clear it. Why had she asked him that question? How did it fit into her game? She had asked if anyone could get in. Had she called somebody? Had she planned somehow to have someone rescue her? But then why today? How did she know that he would leave her alone today? If I needed you, she had said. What would I do, if I needed you? That part didn't make sense.

He rubbed his fingers together slowly. No. The plan. You have to stick to the plan.

The plan – was flawless. And after he had seen how clever she was this morning, he saw that the contingencies had been unnecessary. But no matter with that now. Always better to be prepared for one's quarry, however one might find it.

There were three ways exactly that she could escape. One. The chain had just enough slack in it for her to unwind it from the base of the spinning wheel if she stood up on the bench and unwound one hand at a time. This way was slightly harder, but he had left it open just in case she weren't bright enough to see the ease of the other two ways. Two. The spinning wheel was made of wood, above and below. Its base narrowed just above where it was bolted to the floor. It wouldn't take much, three, maybe four sharp kicks, and the base would splinter freeing her chains. This way was harder to spot and involved more force, but he didn't put it past her. She was strong for her size, he could tell that already. Although, he did hope she didn't choose this option because he was rather fond of that wheel. _And her_. No. No, you stick to the plan.

Three. And this really was his favorite option. The wheel was bolted to the floor with a single wrought iron bolt. If the bolt were tight, there would be no way she could loosen it with her bare hands. But it wasn't. He had loosened it the night before. He had loosened the bolt, just enough – barely three threads showing – so that she could unscrew it without too much difficulty and lift the wheel from the floor. Only a very smart girl, a very observant girl, would notice that the bolt was loose. And she had noticed it – he was sure of that from the way she had offered up her arms – which meant that she was a very, very clever girl.

He smiled, pressing his fingers lightly into the palm of his hand. He admired her – he had to admit it. She was smart and cunning and observant – all things that would serve her well in this life. And that made her a worthy opponent. It was no secret that he virtually always won in his contests with other people. But there was little pleasure in outwitting or overpowering someone who had no chance to win. There was no challenge in it – no pleasure. To beat a worthy opponent, on the other hand, now those were the days worth living for.

# # #

She twisted the metal cuff around her wrist – around and around her wrist. She wished now that he had taught her to spin so that she could focus on something outside her own head. What had happened to her today? What had happened?

_I was only playing. I didn't mean it._

When she and Gaston had been children, he had planned to play a trick on her. He had taken a white dove and put its head under its wing, and he had placed it inside a black magician's hat. She knew what he was planning – to show it to her and pretend that he had broken its neck to frighten her. He wanted to scare her and make her scream like a girl so he could laugh at her. But she'd had a clever idea to turn the joke around on him. She had taken a second dove and had actually broken its neck. She waited until he put the dove inside the hat and then quick – quick as lightning – she had changed them. He had shown her the hat and then reached his tiny hand inside. But when he had pulled out the dead bird, his face lost all of its color. She had clapped her hands together in glee and laughed and laughed and laughed. But he had only stared at her – horror-stricken – at the sight of the dead dove in his hand. And he had cried – huge, heavy teardrops rolling down his face – and she had stopped laughing.

"It was only a trick," she said. "Please don't cry."

But even when she had shown him the live dove, the one she had taken out from the hat, he wouldn't stop crying.

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

She had said it over and over again, but he didn't stop.

_I was only playing. I didn't mean it._

And still, he cradled the dead dove in his hand, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing.

She hadn't gotten it then, hadn't really understood, but she got it now. She got it when she had looked into Rumpelstiltskin's face and seen that look again – that exact look – the look Gaston had had on his young face when he had realized what she had done. The dove was dead, and it didn't matter that it hadn't been the same one. It was dead. It was never coming back. It was dead. And the loss – the loss that she had seen so clearly on the unguarded face of her childhood friend – it was the same loss that she saw in Rumpelstiltskin's face today. He had lost and lost and lost and lost and no matter what happened for the rest of his life, whatever he had lost was gone.

She had felt so ashamed then – so utterly and horribly ashamed – she had stepped back from him in her misery. She thought she had grown up, but she had been just as callous and cruel – just as careless a child. She had only been teasing him – she hadn't meant him any harm – but when she saw that longing on his face when he watched her making his tea – taking _care_ of him – she had been overwhelmed with regret. She had hurt him – with her teasing, her playing, her flirting – she had hurt him just as clearly as if she had shoved a knife deep into his chest. And she was ashamed. And she was sorry. And she wanted to take it all back.

She had only been playing. He was in such good humor sometimes. He told jokes. He even seemed to tease her. She hadn't meant her actions to hurt, but she could clearly see that they had. He pretended to be strong. He pretended not to care. But he was vulnerable – achingly vulnerable. His heart had broken for a moment just from watching her make his tea. He had lost so much, and she had realized then that losing anything more – it could shatter him.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. It slipped off the walls of the empty room. "I was only playing. I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry."

And that was why she hadn't come to him when he had called. She was too ashamed. She was too sorry. She couldn't act as if nothing had happened. She had seen something she knew he hadn't meant for her to see, and she couldn't bear to go on talking with him – to lie and pretend that she hadn't seen it. And when he had held out his hand to her, she'd had to force herself to walk up to him. And she had waited, and she had watched his face so carefully. She didn't want to hurt him again by taking his hand. She didn't want to take – not one more thing – from this beautiful, broken man.

He had tried to sound mean, and that had made her feel even worse – worse for having seen behind his curtain. Because he didn't know what she had seen – didn't know what he had shown her – and didn't know how carelessly she had been playing. So when he had asked her for her hands – he could have asked her for anything – and she would have offered it up to him for his forgiveness. She would have given him anything in that moment – anything to give him the slightest bit of comfort from all the pain he had endured.

When she had looked up at him, he had stepped back away from her, and he'd been shaking.

_I'm sorry. I was only playing. I'm so sorry._

He had been afraid to even touch her, and she had reached for him, begging him not to be afraid. She had told him with her eyes that she would never do it again. She had promised. She would never flirt – never tease him again. She would never take his feelings so lightly ever, ever, ever again. If he wanted to play, if he were ready to share a joke with her or a laugh, then she would. But only if he were ready – only if he knew for certain it was a joke.

He had been pretending to be mean so that she would be afraid of him and think him a monster, but she had been the monster today. She had killed the dove, and the fact that she had meant it in play didn't make it any better. It made it worse – made her worse – because she had taken something so vulnerable and pure and made it a game.

Tears dripped down her face, and she bent down, laying her forehead on her outstretched hands, elbows balanced on her knees. A tear broke free and landed on the wooden floor. She wiped it away with her foot, and that's when she noticed the bolt.

# # #

He opened the satchel she had made for him. It was taking longer than he had thought. He had only planned to be in that tree for an hour, maybe two at the most. How long did it take to unscrew a simple bolt and move a spinning wheel? If he had known it would take her this long he would have asked her to put a little more in the bag.

His right leg dangled idly, and he let it sway slowly back and forth.

He hadn't lit the fire before he left or lit any of the candles on the table. If she didn't come out the door before long, pretty soon she'd be sitting there in the dark. What could be keeping that girl? It wasn't that she minded the dark so much – he had noticed she was just as comfortable during the night as in the day – but she was always getting cold. That was the problem with leaving her alone. The slightest chill in the air or draft from one of the windows and she would shiver, gooseflesh all up and down her arms. He had to fight the urge to smile.

And what did it matter to him, anyway, if she were cold? It was only her own fault for the delay. If she would hurry up and unscrew the bolt, she could be standing outside in the sun right now and then he could be taking her back inside, his arm around her waist, instead of sitting here for hours on top of a tree branch. Even he was starting to get cold.

He considered briefly abandoning the plan. I mean, if she hadn't figured out the bolt was loose by now, it was doubtful she would before nightfall. And he did not want to sit in this tree until then. But he had gone to so much trouble to set this whole thing up – he was almost embarrassed to forget about it now.

He leaned his head back against the tree, sipping the cool, sweet tea she had made him. He wanted to close his eyes, but he was afraid he might fall asleep and so miss her exiting the door. He wasn't normally sleepy after meals – he ate so lightly most of the time – but after only a few pieces of bread and some sweet tea his eyes were getting heavy. He had stayed up all night, not slept even a little, because he'd been thinking and rethinking the plan.

He knew he shouldn't, but it was so hard not to let his mind drift to all the things that might happen when she walked out the door. The plan was to catch her – that part was simple enough – but what had pained him was thinking up the punishment. It needed to be severe, he had known that much. And it needed to frighten her rather badly. He had thought of all the different things he could do, but not one of them had seemed right. Some were too severe – he didn't want to really hurt her – and some weren't severe enough. She was brave and difficult to chasten.

He wanted her off balance just a touch, which seemed to be taking much more effort than it had with anyone else. She was so trusting with him sometimes – so comfortable – she took liberties that nobody should take with him. She flounced and teased and even flirted this morning, trusting in her beauty to save her. No, he wasn't going to hurt her. But he was going to scare her.

He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, licking the sweetness of the tea off his lips, and he closed his eyes thinking about the first part – the part he would try not to enjoy. When she came out of the castle, he would drop down from the tree and catch her. He hoped she wouldn't run. If she did, he might have to grab her, and he wouldn't want to hurt her doing that. And once he had caught her, he would put his arm around her – soothe her a little if she were very frightened – and then walk her gently back inside. He would take her upstairs to his bedroom and start a roaring fire with the wave of his hand so she wouldn't be cold. Then he would take her to the mantle and gently – ever so gently – he would raise her arms and place them on the mantle. He would position his body behind her so that she couldn't back up, and so that she'd be standing between the warmth of the fire and him. Then he would caress her back – just once – and begin opening her gown from behind.

If she cried then, he would comfort her – he would promise not to hurt her, and he would keep that promise. But after he was finished opening the back of the dress – he tried not to think about what she would look like – he would walk her over to the bed. He would let her hold the dress up in front of her – he wouldn't make her take it off. And then he would lay her down very gently on the bed, letting her curl her arms in front of her, with only her back exposed. He wasn't sure exactly how low the zipper of the dress went, but if it went too low, he would cover her with the blanket so that only her back showed. And then he would remove his belt – slowly – let her hear what he was doing so she would be afraid, so her mind would conjure all the things he might be planning to do.

And then – and this was the part he hated to think about – he would lash her with his belt. He looked down at the thin suede belt tied in a knot around his hips. He had selected it carefully, gone through all the belts he owned. He had tested each one, whipping them over and over his bare leg. He had discarded all the leather ones and the ones that had buckles, and had settled instead on this one. It was one of his oldest and so it was fairly soft and when he'd used it on himself, it had only stung for a moment. His skin hadn't pinkened, and he would stop immediately if hers did.

The punishment, you see, was not the lashing at all. The punishment was the part before it, when he was walking her up the stairs to his bedroom, when he was placing her arms on the mantle, when he was opening the back of her dress, when he was laying her down on the bed. The punishment was making her fear him, allowing her own thoughts to run away with her. The punishment was making her see that she was vulnerable. _Like she was when she gave you her hands?_

The voice was sharp and derisive in his head, and he smacked it away.

_You won't do it. I know you won't._

He glared at the voice in his head. Shut up.

_You'll stop the moment you look into those big blue eyes and see that she's frightened._ The voice taunted him.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

_Who are you kidding? You're not going to take her upstairs. The moment she looks up at you, those big tears rolling down her face, you'll forget about the whole thing._

I won't, he insisted. I'll punish her.

_You are so weak_, the voice went on. _You would let her get away with murder before you would touch a single strand from her head._

Shut up!

He hated her – that voice. It wasn't the queen in reality, just that she had somehow gotten into his head, made him doubt himself. It was like hearing the harsh words of his father long after the man had been dead. The queen didn't know anything about this. He kept the mirrors covered just in case. But he couldn't deny that he had heard her voice all night long, laughing at him – mocking him – as he had lashed his own legs to red welts.

# # #

A strange thing happens when you begin to decide your own fate. You decide – your own – fate.

She rolled the bolt between her two hands, feeling its weight against her palms. She could leave right now. She could stand up and walk out that door – consequences be damned. And she'd be gone already – truth be told – if she hadn't seen that look on his face this morning.

Something happens to you, something changes inside of you, when you start to look out for yourself. There's a survival instinct, it's fierce and strong like a panther, and it urges you to run when there's danger and it makes you keep fighting when you can't go on. And that panther was loose inside of her.

The bolt was in her hands and the door was in her sight and the animal part of her – the panther part – told her to run like there was no tomorrow, warned her she had already wasted far too much time deliberating her options.

"Just go if you're gonna go," she whispered to herself. "Just go."

She didn't owe him a thing. She had never laid eyes on him before two days ago. She was sorry for all that he had lost, but she had not been the one to take from him. She had never taken from him – had stopped herself before she had ever had the chance to take from him. She could leave now. She could run before things got worse – before he came back and did to her those things that he had promised – before she felt anything in her heart as tender and soft as she had when she had looked into his eyes this morning.

If only it were yesterday. She could have left if it had been yesterday. Or even if it had been this morning – early, early this morning – before he had looked at her like a lost little boy. She could have left him then. She could have walked right out the door. She could have separated herself from him completely. How had he bound her so after not even forty-eight hours had passed?

She looked down at the chains flowing over her lap, and they mocked her. The chains were the cruelest of jokes. He had no need to bind her wrists when he had already so fully bound her heart. She shook her head, furious at herself, the panther spitting at her and pacing inside the walls of her insanity. You don't deserve me, the panther snarled. You don't deserve to survive at all. Anyone who would trade their safety, their freedom, their _life_ – for another? – for one you wouldn't have known from Adam two days before? Any such person doesn't deserve to survive. Any such person deserves to get eaten – by a _wolf_.


	6. Chapter 6

He started so suddenly he nearly fell from the tree. He cast his eyes left, right in a panic. It was dark, so dark. It was nighttime. How had he fallen asleep?

He jumped down and landed in a soft pile of snow, nearly losing his balance and falling. He grabbed onto the tree for support.

It was completely dark inside the castle, not a glimmer of light coming from the windows. _Belle._ What had happened to her? Why was it so quiet inside? Was she alright? Was she cold? Was she scared? Or maybe she had escaped. Maybe she had slipped right out the front door after he had fallen asleep. Maybe she had walked right past him, not even thinking he might be there.

He bolted – a dead run – through the freshly fallen snow. He slipped and came down hard on his hands and knees and then jumped back to his feet and continued running. His heart pounded in his ears. Why hadn't she come? Was she alright? Had something happened to her? Was she hurt? Or maybe somebody had taken her – taken her away while he was sleeping. What if she were gone? What if she were gone, and he hadn't had the chance to even say goodbye? What if she were gone? What if she were gone? What if she were gone?

His hand was shaking when he raised it to open the door. His magic was weak – so weak he could barely get the latch to move. On his second try, the bolt slid slow across the inside of the door, and he had to push the door open with his hands. Inside, it was dark, pitch black and he could see nothing. The air was so still inside the dining room, no one could be in there. His hand was shaking when he raised it to light the candle on the wall behind him – shaking so hard he couldn't snap his fingers and had to settle on a clumsy little wave.

The candle lit, the flare lighting the room only dimly, and he saw it – the spinning wheel, large and still against the backdrop of the curtain. It was exactly in its place, but where was Belle? His heart pounded in his ears and he ran – he ran around the table to see. _There._ His heart stopped, and the floor dropped out from under him. He approached her slowly, carefully so as not to startle her.

Her arms were curled close to her body, making a little nest of a pillow for her head. Her cheeks, pale from the cold, were resting lightly on the surface of her arms and her delicate fingers dangled loosely by her chest. She laid so still, with her arms resting on the surface of the spinning table, and her breaths made little steam puffs in the air.

"Belle," he whispered. He hadn't meant to use her name. And his hands encircled her delicate shoulders and squeezed.

She took a breath and made the slightest movement toward sitting up, rubbing her face languidly against her arm. She dragged her lips slowly over the surface of her arm, raising her head but not yet opening her eyes.

"My dear girl," he whispered, stroking her hair, her back. She was freezing.

She turned her face toward him, propping her chin briefly on her own shoulder, and opened her eyes. He had meant to back up so he wouldn't be so close when she did, but she smiled anyway when she saw his face inches from hers.

"You're home," she whispered. And she let out a big yawn that made him release the breath he'd been holding. She smiled and looked up at him, seeming not to notice his hands on her shoulders and back. "I was starting to get worried," she said, sitting up.

"I can see that," he said. He laughed.

She giggled. "Well, I was starting to get worried before I got sleepy," she said. She smiled again and stretched her long, bare arms out in front of her. She shivered hard and let out another yawn.

"Come, my dear, you're freezing," he said. He slipped his jacket off without thinking and draped it over her shoulders, wrapping her arms inside of it with her body. He rubbed her arms from the outside of the coat to warm her, and for once he didn't notice that he was standing so close he was touching her back with his chest.

"It's always so cold when you're not here," she murmured.

"What?" he said.

"What?" she asked.

"What did you say?" he asked.

She seemed to startle then and come fully awake. They stared at each other for a long moment and then their gazes snapped apart like shrapnel.

He cast his eyes around looking for something – anything – a distraction.

"Did you," she started. "Did you fall?"

"What?" he said.

"Your coat," she said. She touched the edges of the jacket he had put on her. "It has snow on it. Did you fall?"

"Oh," he said. He laughed nervously, and it came out a slightly higher than normal trill. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"Oh," she said. She laughed and flushed, all pink and coquettish, and he would have wanted to grab her and pull her back to him if she weren't so dangerous as to be radioactive.

He nodded.

"Well," he said. He brought his hands together in front of him. "I suppose you're anxious to get those off now, aren't you?" he said. He pointed to the cuffs on her wrist.

She nodded, her lips pressed lightly together in a half-smile and held her arms out to him like a child. She waited patiently for him to open them and kept her eyes in the vicinity of his chest when he took her wrists into his hands. He opened the cuffs slowly, watching her face, but she wouldn't bring her eyes up to meet his.

"There you are, my dear. I hope they weren't too tight on you," he said.

She shook her head, holding one wrist in front of her chest with her hand.

"What's the matter, dearie? Cat got your tongue?" he asked. He dipped his head lower and tried to catch her eye, tried to make her smile.

She did smile and shook her head. "No, I – I suppose I'm just cold still – a little," she said. She hugged his jacket around herself tightly.

"Of course you are, my dear," he said. "I should have lit the fire for you before I left." He waved his hand, and the fire roared to life in the fireplace.

She turned around when she heard it and let out a startled little laugh. She turned back to him and shook her head. "So, that's why there were no matches," she said.

He wasn't sure what she was referring to, but he smiled anyway and gave a gentleman's bow, ending by clasping his hands together in front of his chest.

"Go on now, my dear, go stand in front of the fire and get warm," he said. He put his hand on her back and turned her gently in the direction of the fireplace.

She smiled and ducked her face ever so slightly behind the edge of his upturned collar. "Thank you," she said. She turned and walked away.

He watched her, trying not to look too long at her back, and then turned his attention back to the spinning wheel. He took one of the metal cuffs in his hands and unwound it from around the base of the wheel. And that's when he noticed the bolt.

# # #

She stood in front of the blazing fire, holding his coat tightly around her bare arms. It smelled like him. It felt like him. It made her feel as if he were holding her. Had he been touching her, stroking her back when he had woken her? She had felt the heat all over her bare skin but hadn't been able to focus, really, on what he had been doing.

"You were gone a long time," she said. She looked over her shoulder at him.

He was making his way around the edge of the room, appearing to give her a very wide berth.

"Yes, I had a long way to go," he said. He stopped in front of the glass cabinet and pulled out one of the low drawers beneath the case.

She turned back to the crackling fire in front of her. "Did you finish what you set out to do?" she asked.

The heat from the open flame warmed the jacket around her, releasing more of that cedar, honey scent she smelled whenever he was near. It was starting to make her feel dizzy.

"Not quite," he said.

He circled the room, keeping his distance from her, and sat down on the chaise lounge chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. She saw that he held a heavy down quilt on his lap. He leaned back, draping his arm over the back of the chair and let his gaze wash over her.

"Come over here, my dear, and sit beside me," he said.

She felt her cheeks warming. She turned from the fire and walked over to him slowly. She liked when he was like this – unguarded and warm. She unwrapped herself from his jacket and hung it up on the back of his dining room chair. Then she smoothed her skirt underneath herself and sat down next to him.

He handed her the blanket with a Cheshire cat-like smile, and she giggled.

She took the blanket and shook it out. It looked like it hadn't been used in many years, but it still smelled like him. She wondered if everything in this house smelled like him. She wondered if she would eventually start to smell like him. She gave the blanket a final shake, and it settled over both of them like a parachute. Then she lifted her legs off the floor, pulling the blanket up to her chin, and laid back against his outstretched arm.

He jumped.

She sat up quickly, pulling the blanket off with her.

"I'm – I'm so sorry," she said. She looked at him, eyes wide. "Are you alright? Do you want me to move?"

"No," he said. He smiled at her, no trace of discomfort on his face. "Not at all."

"Are you sure?" she asked. Her brows knitted together in concern.

"I'm fine, my dear," he said. He gestured to the spot at his side. "Please."

He watched her lay back down, very, very slowly by his side. He had not been expecting that. He had brought the blanket over for her to use. And he'd been surprised when she had spread it over both of them, but not shocked. But when he had invited her to sit beside him, he had actually meant for her _sit_ beside him. He had draped his arm over the back of the chaise to claim his spot. He had expected her to avoid it, to take a seat on the other end near the fire. The last thing he had expected was for her lie down like that, right on his arm, as if they had been married for a hundred years. It was no wonder he had jumped.

And then she had leapt up like a cat, stared down at him, scrutinizing him. He had tried to brush it off, but she'd wanted to examine the thing in the light, to turn it over from all different angles. She would not let it be.

He was relieved – but terrified – when she took his challenge and laid gingerly back down onto his arm. He wanted to move it away, but he was trying to disarm her, and he couldn't very well do that if he were running from her like a frightened child. He took several deep breaths to slow his heart. Maybe it was better this way, to have her close to him, so that he could watch her face more carefully. He had to ask her about the bolt, about what she had done with it while he was gone, and he would need to watch her closely for any deception.

She glanced up at him and smiled. "Are you uncomfortable?" she asked softly.

"Not at all," he said. He smiled.

She smiled back, and her cheeks flushed a little.

Alright fine, if she wanted to play it this way, two could play this game. Keeping his arm wrapped around her, he began to sift through her hair gently with his fingers. She stilled for a moment and then laid her arm down on his chest, her delicate hand resting right over his heart. Clever girl, he thought. But he wouldn't make it that easy for her. No, if she wanted to test him – to feel the trip hammer pounding of his heart – she was going to have to do it another way. He captured her tiny hand in his free one and lifted it up higher, resting it near his neck. He held her hand firmly and didn't let it go. He watched her for her reaction.

Her eyes followed their joined hands, and she lay quietly on his chest looking up at them. She wasn't even breathing quickly. What? Did she do this for a living?

"So," he said. He forced his voice to be steady. "Were you a good girl for me while I was gone?"

His hand stilled where he was sifting the silken strands of her hair, and he looked down, directly into her eyes. His lips were parted and teeth bared, ready to pounce on her because he already knew the answer.

She looked up at him and pressed her lips together. Then she dropped her eyes briefly to their joined hands again.

"Not particularly," she said. She looked up at him again, her clear eyes round and unguarded.

He gave a startled laughed. Of all the things he had expected to come out of her mouth, the truth – the _truth_ – was the very last among them.

She laughed too and shook her head, slipping her hand out of his and covering her face with it briefly.

He pulled her hand away and slid his finger under her chin, tilting her face back up to meet his. "What do you mean, my dear?" he asked. He was trying to get back to the script, but he could hear the laughter in his own voice.

She looked at him, all shy and embarrassed, her every edge softened beyond belief. She pressed her lips together, those lovely dimples appearing again, and began moving her hand down beneath the blanket.

Somewhere in his mind he registered danger – danger of the utmost kind. But this was danger of such a brand that he could not move an inch, could not even jump away to save himself. He was tethered to a sinking boat running straight toward the bottom of the ocean. He watched the snake of her hand descend toward the center of their bodies, and he thought he would burst into flames if she didn't stop.

"I took this. I'm sorry," she said simply. She was holding the bolt – the one from the base of the spinning table. She was holding it in her hand. She had taken it – _unscrewed _it – put it in her pocket. She had removed it completely, and now she was holding it in her hand.

He took it, bewildered. "Why?" he asked. He hadn't meant it to sound so desperate.

"Because I was going to escape," she said. She looked up at him sadly.

_No, no, no, my dear – not why did you take it, but why didn't you leave me?_

"But if you removed this," he said. He barely even whispered it. "Why didn't you move the spinning wheel? Was it too heavy for you?"

He had to check himself. He didn't want to make it seem as though he had planned the whole thing out – even though he had.

"No," she said. She shook her head. "I – I don't know."

"What do you mean, darling? What do you mean that you don't know?" he asked.

_Don't call her darling. You shouldn't call her darling._

"I don't know if it was too heavy. I didn't try to move it," she said.

He stared at her hard.

She wasn't looking at him. Instead, her eyes were on her fingers, and her fingers were absently playing with the buttons on his shirt.

_Dear Lord, have mercy upon me, child._

"But why? Why didn't you try to move it?" he asked.

She pressed her lips together a little tighter and for a terrifying moment, he thought she was going to cry.

"Because I – I made you a promise," she said. She looked up at him then, so full of sorrow and compassion it made his heart ache.

"What promise, child?" he asked.

She looked down at her fingers and didn't answer him.

He gently cupped her face in his hand and lifted her eyes back up to meet his.

_You're getting too comfortable touching her. You shouldn't touch her so much._

"Do you mean when we made the deal, when you agreed to come stay with me forever?" he asked.

She chewed on her bottom lip.

"Is that what you mean, my dear?" he asked.

She pressed her lips together. She opened her mouth, like she wanted to say something, but then she didn't. In the end, she just shook her head no.

"What promise then did you make to me, child?" he asked.

She closed her eyes and pulled her face away from his hand. She laid her head down on his chest and closed her eyes tighter, clutching a fistful of his shirt in her hand. She kept her eyes closed and rubbed her face hard, fiercely, against his chest, like she was trying to wipe away a bad memory.

"I don't want to talk about this," she whispered. "Please don't make me talk about this."

He looked down, trying to see if she was crying.

"I don't – I don't want to talk anymore," she said. She pressed her face so hard into his chest that she was hurting him.

"Alright," he heard himself say. "Alright, you don't have to."

He wrapped his arms around her tight and laid a hand on the back of her head, shielding her face from him. He knew she didn't want him to look at her just then.

"It's alright now, my dear. We don't have to talk anymore. Sshhh. Sshhh. It's alright. You don't have to say anything," he whispered.

He held her tightly in his arms and rocked her just a little, like a baby. He kept squeezing her and rocking her until gradually he felt the tension start to ebb away from her body. He felt her sigh, the warmth wet against his chest, and she released the tight hold she had on his shirt. She turned her face to the side, resting her cheek against his chest instead of burying her whole face into it the way she had been. She uncurled her fist and laid her palm directly over his heart, but he didn't move it away this time. This time he let it stay right where it was, and he didn't worry that she'd feel his heart pounding.

As she relaxed, he relaxed, and he found that he wasn't clutching her so tightly. He leaned down, and he knew he shouldn't do it. He knew it was like putting your hand into a flame. Even if you could bear the pain of it, the fire would spread and all too quickly it would engulf you. But he did it anyway because he was weak and maybe even because he was a little reckless. He pressed a kiss to her creamy forehead, letting his lips linger there a long time. She smiled and opened her eyes, looking up at him – so adoring. And that's when he knew – when he really knew – that he was in the biggest trouble of his life.


	7. Chapter 7

She stole a glance at him, surreptitiously over her shoulder. From her spot on top of the ladder, she could just make out the still, calm expression on his face when he turned slightly to let the golden strands slip from between his delicate fingers. But except for when he turned, she could only see his back – straight and still and graceful – he had the most perfect posture of anyone she had ever seen.

She turned back to the curtain in her hands and pressed her lips together. She searched through the heavy folds of fabric, feeling, rather than looking, for the break in the material. She shifted her weight, working her hands closer to the panel's center.

Then she stopped and stole a second glance. Truth be told, it was a little more than a second glance. Truth be told, it was more like the 37th glance.

He was still gently avoiding her. That saddened her more than she cared to admit. Several weeks had past since the night he had held her on the chaise, and since then he had kept his distance. He didn't rebuff her or push her away. He wouldn't leave a room once she had entered it, and he didn't send her away to do some petty chore when he found her in a space where he wanted to be. He was still courteous and polite, still quick to give her something if she needed it. But he didn't talk to her either – not really.

He wasn't cold to her or distant – just guarded, gentle and guarded. And he was careful not to touch her and not to call her by her name. She wasn't sure why, but she noticed that he never said her name – he hadn't since that night. And although it was getting warmer outside, the air felt colder inside the house now that he didn't let her get so close to him. She had to laugh when she thought of how she had used his body as her personal heating appliance those first couple of days, and she missed how close he used to allow her to be.

But there were still times – two of them each day – and she cherished them like a newborn baby, when he would freely touch her and let her touch him. The first was in the morning when he came to wake her. He would open the door to her cell and wait quietly outside for her to wake up. Sometimes she pretended not to hear him so that he would come inside and wake her gently, rubbing her back and her shoulders. And when she had opened her eyes, he would smile and go out into the hall to wait for her while she got dressed. And then he would put his arm around her, tight around her, and hold her close against his side. He would hold her like that and walk her to the entrance of the dining room before letting her go and stepping away.

The second time was at night, when he said those velvety soft words to her – it's time for bed now, my dear. At times he looked almost sad to say it, like he didn't want their day together to be over. And at times she was a little sad too, but she couldn't help looking forward to the next part. Wherever they were in the house, he would wrap his arm around her and fold her gently against his body. And she would lay her head down on his shoulder as he walked her all the way back to her room. She had begun thinking of that hallway – the hallway outside her room as _their _hallway – as the hallway where he always held her. And although she hated being locked up and away from him, the sight of that hallway always warmed her because she knew she would be walking it in his arms.

She looked back over her shoulder again – leaning her body against the ladder's frame because she wanted something just then to hold her up. She let her head rest lightly against one of the bars, imagining it was his shoulder. She wrapped her arms tight around the ladder's frame, hugging it to herself and feeling it bear up under her weight so surely. Her cheek rested on the bar like a pillow as she watched the steady movements of his hand at the wheel, the delicate flicker of his fingers against the thread.

It didn't matter, really, if she stared. His spinning was the only thing he did where he was utterly unselfconscious – where he was absorbed. He paid so close attention to the thread and the wheel, moving each with the finest and most delicate precision. It was as if the whole room, instead of just her, were watching him with bated breath when he spun.

# # #

It didn't feel warm exactly, and it didn't feel cool. But it did send tingles down his spine like a sudden evening breeze in the summertime drying the sweat from your skin. That's how he knew when she was watching him, even when he didn't turn around. At first, it was brief like it usually was – a tingle here, a ripple there – and then quick like lightning, it was gone. But after she'd climbed the ladder, it had become steady – a regular pulsating thrum – up his spine and then down. Up his spine and then down. Up his spine and then down.

"Why do you spin so much?"

He half-turned his face and then frowned. He wouldn't answer if she were only chatting, not when the answer was so personal.

"I'm sorry, it's just," she said. He could almost hear the flush on her cheeks, almost feel the brush of her hair against her shoulders when she shook her head. "You've spun more straw into gold than you could ever spend." The softest rustle from the fabric of her gown when she shrugged.

He leaned back a little, relaxing his shoulders. "I like to watch the wheel," he said. He felt the wood beneath his fingers. "It helps me forget."

"Forget what?" she asked.

He felt the grin in his cheeks before he actually made it.

"Well, I guess it worked," he said. He laughed.

It was a sound like water rippling over smooth rock when she laughed.

He turned to watch her.

And then the blush and then the rustle and she turned away.

He stood up and crossed the room to her in long strides. He squinted when he looked up at her, like she were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

"What _are_ you doing?" he asked. He meant so much more than just the curtains.

"Opening these. It's almost spring," she said. She gave the heavy fabric a firmer tug. "Should let some light it."

He moved in a little closer toward the base of the ladder and then circled it, keeping his distance.

She tugged, her cheeks pink from the exertion, and he saw a light shimmer of sweat on her chest and upper arms. She pulled harder, her hands searching through the fabric, trying to find the weak place where they were attached.

"What did you do, nail them down?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. How else would he have fixed them there?

She gave a soft laugh and shook her head. She reached farther toward the center of the curtain, and she tugged.

Her body was so warm and had a comforting weight as it pressed down and against him, and he hadn't realized he'd been reaching for her until he'd caught her. He blinked. It was an onslaught on his senses. Searing light where it had just been dark. Heavy warmth when it had just been cold. And her closeness – she felt so alive to him – when he had felt dead for all this time.

"Um, thank you," she said. She looked up him, shy and surprised, and he dropped her. "Thank you," she repeated.

He took a quick step back. "No matter," he said. He backed away from her fast, turning and heading for the exit.

It was a soft laugh he heard next – the one she gave when she was a little embarrassed.

"I'll, um," she said. She blushed and ducked her face behind her shoulder. "I'll put the curtains back up."

He took several more steps and then stilled. He turned and walked back toward her, but stopped when he was still several feet away.

"There's no need," he said. "I'll get used to it."

He turned and felt the thrumming of her eyes on his back as he walked away. He held one hand out in front of himself for a guide – as if he were dizzy and that hand would steady him.

# # #

He spotted her stalking him while he was pouring the tea. Her hands were clasped behind her back innocently, but she had the look of a lioness tracking her prey. He turned and started walking down the length of the table. A pointed glance back over his shoulder, revealed her close behind. He took two more steps and then stopped. He turned slowly. He stood his ground.

She dropped her eyes in a half-shrug and then pulled herself up onto the surface of the table.

His tension eased in response, and he leaned back a little into his stance.

"Why did you want me here?" she asked. Her eyes were clear and round, but her posture was serious.

"Place was filthy," he said. He laughed and took a sip.

She pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes just a little, not allowing him to dismiss it with a joke. "I think you were lonely. I mean, any man would be lonely," she said. She looked up at him, and he didn't meet her eyes.

"Ah, but I am not a man," he said. He moved to lean against the table beside her so that they were shoulder to shoulder, instead of letting her look at his face. He kept his head turned down so that she would have to lean off the table very far to get a look.

"So, I've had a couple of months to look around, you know," she said. She was treading lightly, but he winced. "And, upstairs, there's clothing," she said. She spoke slowly, leaving him room to run away. "Small – is it for a – a child?" she asked. She leaned forward, trying to see his face around his hair. "Was it yours or – was there a son?"

"There was," he said. It was whisper soft. "There was a son. I – lost him – as I did his mother."

He felt her lean in just a little, her face nearing his shoulder a fraction of an inch as she looked down at the floor.

"I'm – I'm sorry," she said.

He rotated the cup in his hands but didn't drink.

"So, you were a man once," she said. She tried to look at his face again. "An ordinary man?"

He leaned away from her a little, and she followed him with a matching movement of her own body.

"If I'm never going to know another person in my whole life," she said. She put her tiny face just in front of his shoulder, looking up at him – making him see her. "Can't I at least know you?"

"Perhaps," he said. He stood up, breaking the contact between their arms. He set the cup down on the table, turning his body to face hers, and then leveled her with a piercing look. "Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses," he said. He leaned in close, his face inches from hers and pulled his lips back – teeth bared.

She smiled and looked at him indulgently. "You're not a monster," she said. Her voice was so loving just then he stepped back. "You think you're uglier than you are, that's why you cover all the mirrors up, isn't it? Hm?"

He was standing exposed – blinking like he had in the light when she had pulled the curtains down – trapped. She was on the offensive, and he had to run. But he had no idea where to go.

Two loud knocks on the door were what saved him.

He forced himself to walk – not to run – out of the dining room. He closed the doors behind him so that she wouldn't see his hand pressing down on his chest – wouldn't see him trying to catch his breath after her chase.

# # #

She turned around when she heard the dining room doors swing open.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"Just an old woman selling flowers," he said. He said it lightly but he had that hint of laughter in his eyes – of mischief – when he said it. He pulled a long-stemmed rose out from behind his back and held it out to her. "You can have it," he said.

She laughed. She secretly loved it when he was sweet to her and pretended not to be. It was almost more touching than when he was outright kind.

"Why, thank you," she said. She took the rose and gave a curtsey, her eyes sparkling up at him.

He gave a deep bow in return, holding his arms out to side like a magician having performed a stunning trick. It was only the way he pressed his hands together in front of him at the end of it that revealed how pleased he was that he'd made her happy.

It was his turn to follow her, and she supposed it was only fair, as she moved over to the lock box to retrieve the key for the glass cabinet.

"You had a life, Belle, before this," he said. He dropped into his seat at the table.

She glanced over her shoulder and looked at him.

"Friends. Family. What made you choose to come here with me?" he asked. He tilted his head back leaned it against the high back of the chair as he often did when he was watching her.

She took down an old golden pillar vase, just large enough for a single bloom. She shrugged almost imperceptibly.

"Heroism. Sacrifice. You know, there aren't a lot of opportunities for women in this land to – to show what they can do, to see the world, to be heroes. So when you arrived, that was my chance," she said. She carried the vase over to the table and set it down. She clipped the end of the rose off with a pair of shears, and his eyes gave off a quick spark. "I always wanted to brave," she said. She gave a slight shrug of her shoulder. "I figured, do the brave thing and bravery would follow."

"And is it everything you hoped?" he asked. He held his hands out, encompassing the castle, a sardonic lilt to his voice.

She laughed. "Well, I did want to see the world," she said. She pulled herself up onto the surface of the table again, so that she was sitting near the edge closest to him. "That part didn't really work out," she said. She looked at him, and he smiled at her, like they were sharing a secret no one else knew. "But, I did save my village."

"And what about your, uh," he said. He cast his eyes about – looking for the word. "Betrothed?"

She shrugged and smiled. "It was an arranged marriage," she said. She shook her head, giving the truth up to him easily. "Honestly, I never really cared much for Gaston. You know to me, love is," she said. She crinkled her eyes just a bit at the corners and leaned in closer to him, dropping her voice. "Love is layered. Love is a mystery to be uncovered," she said. She looked down at him, trying to see if he understood. "I could never truly give my heart to someone as superficial as he," she said.

She looked at him. He had the most remarkable look on his face. It was wonder mixed with laughter mixed with – something – something else. What was that? She shook her head, quick, to clear it.

"But, um," she said. She let out a soft laugh. "You were going to tell me about your son."

"I'll tell you what. I'll make you a deal," he said. "Go to town and fetch me some straw. When you return, I'll share my tale."

"But – you – town?" she said. She shook her head, trying hard to comprehend what he had just said to her. "You would trust me to come back?"

"Oh no, my dear," he said. He leaned his head back against the back of the chair. "No, I expect I'll never see you again."


End file.
